Ramblings from Düsseldorf...

View from room 407, Friends Hotel...

Wherever I go in the world everything, bar virtually nothing, is the same. Now, don't for one minute think that I'm talking about 'globalisation'. Globalisation is all to do with branding and big business and the fact that, wherever you go, you might encounter a Tesco or a Claire's Accessories or a Zara and so on. There's nothing worse than flying thousands of miles to the other side of the globe only to discover that the first thing you see is a McDonald's or a Tesco Express. I flew to Calgary once and saw a Claire's Accessories.

Earlier this evening I was sitting in Da Bruno, an Italian restaurant a short walk from my hotel here in Dusseldorf, Germany, where there was a leaving party of sorts going on. It was just the same as any other leaving party the world over; I could have been anywhere on the planet and possibly even in the middle of the Sahara desert, who knows? But I was in Düsseldorf, it was getting dark outside as we are now into September and the days are closing in, but the scene was just the same in London, Madrid, Paris, Warsaw, Montreal, New York, Mexico City, Brasilia, you name it. People were making self-conscious speeches or accepting gifts from their work colleagues, the usual stuff. And really that's it, there's not much else to say other than everybody's the same the world over – we're all so samey and predictable and we all experience the same phobias, the same desires, the same ambitions and the same failures. As my dad used to tell me, "You're not unique."

When you equate such thinking with the atrocities going on around the world, in places like Syria, you realise that most of those atrocities are caused by religion and governments and that most of the people caught up in conflicts would, I'm guessing, rather be sitting in a restaurant wishing good luck to their work colleagues who might be moving on to pastures new. Syria's refugees want safety and normality and so they're heading to Europe to live in what the Clash once called a 'safe European home'.

Room 407's telephone, Friends Hotel

I find myself thinking about those refugees and wondering when they last found themselves in a restaurant celebrating the fact that somebody had just turned 21 or was getting married or leaving one job to start another. If they have any memories at all I'm guessing that they're distant or long forgotten.

It seems to me that if you look at the root causes of a lot of the upheavals affecting the world today, it's always got something to do with religion. Frankly, I find it all a little crazy when you consider that 'religion' is just a belief system, nothing more, nothing less – in the same way that some people think Elvis is still alive – and why should anybody be forced to believe in something they don't want to believe in? I know. It all sounds like a very simplistic argument, but when you consider that belief systems  – in their various forms – are just that, 'beliefs', then surely we all need to get a grip and cast magic aside for the sake of reality.

I'm not sure where I stand on the big pillars of religious thinking, the main one being the afterlife, but I'm pretty sure that if we can't get a man to Mars or find a cure for cancer, Alzheimer's and the like, then there can't really be an afterlife. If there is such a thing, then I'd like to know why my dad hasn't been in touch (surely the dead are allowed ONE phone call). And how are they existing? In houses? Apartments? Hotels? And what age are they? The age they were when they died? Imagine finding yourself in the afterlife with all those virgins waiting to offer you a good time and having to admit that you're 84 and would have trouble raising a smile, not to mention anything else. The frustration of the real world would be carried forward to the afterlife and you'd be standing around wondering if there was another afterlife after the afterlife in which you had a choice of what age you'd want to be. Perhaps in the afterlife there are religious groups some of which put forward the argument that there is no afterlife after the afterlife; and conflicting groups arguing the opposite point of view. Perhaps there's a certain animosity between the two opposing camps and they're trying to blow each other up. Who knows?

Where conflict in Syria and Iraq are concerned, Tony Blair and George Bush have a lot to answer for and, in the eyes of many, are the real villains of the piece. Together they have destabilised the Middle East and enabled organisations like ISIS to exist and expand and it all falls back on the highly suspicious invasion of Iraq some 12 years ago – remember the spurious claim, made by Tony Blair, that Saddam had weapons of mass destruction that could hit the UK within 45 minutes? It was all a lie. Remember the suspicious and still unexplained death of David Kelly? Well, there were no weapons of mass destruction, but not because of faulty intelligence as the government would like us all to believe. The intelligence was fine it was just that, faced with outrage from the public at large, 'faulty intelligence' was the best excuse on offer at the time – and what an easy excuse! "If you can't trust the intelligence services, who CAN you trust?" Nobody if the truth be known, but then again, the truth will never be revealed, not with Lord Chilcott in charge. Let's not forget that Lord C is a very close friend of Tony Blair and a member of the establishment (LORD Chilcott) – so don't expect any kind of prosecution; it's not going to happen.

Friends Hotel, Düsseldorf after dark...

Today we are suffering for what Bush and Blair inflicted on the world and to what end? Back in the early noughties it was all about winning contracts for companies like Halliburton, but now it's more about how the West caused the problem and then sat back and did nothing, bowing to pressure to 'bring our boys home' and allowing disparate groups, like ISIS, to form unfettered. In short, it's a real 'can of worms' but in many ways that phrase 'you reap what you sow' springs to mind. Today we're having to deal with the consequences – lone wolf terrorist atrocities like Tunisia, the Charlie Hebdo murders in Paris and so on. 

In fact, terrorism aside, have you noticed how nobody within the establishment ever gets prosecuted? If there's a problem, say, with the police and it goes to the IPCC, the police always get off. And now, with historical child abuse allegations hitting the political establishment, isn't it amazing how it's all been left until they're dead or suffering from dementia and for those still in the firing line there's plenty of delaying tactics in place to stop or hinder any investigations going forward – possibly in the hope that those being accused will die off before an inquiry gets underway. All very, very suspicious if you ask me.

This morning there was a particularly disturbing image on the front page of the Independent of a very young boy washed up on a Turkish beach in Bodrum. The image brought into focus the problem facing Europe over its policy towards migrants coming from war-torn regions of the Middle East and Africa. The UK, apparently, has only taken in 216 refugees from Turkey, which is piss poor when you consider that we could operate more like a multi-storey car park: when it is discovered that a family from Britain has mysteriously left the country en route to a better life in Syria with ISIS, the spaces vacated could be filled by those wanting to enter the UK. We could put up one of those signs at Dover saying "Full" or "Spaces". However, with something like 330,000 people arriving on these shores from all over Europe – people living in Europe and moving to England to claim benefits – then perhaps it's not that good an idea.

I wandered back along Karlstrasse towards my hotel in the dark, but it's easy to spot as there's a green light illuminating a white building, which is the Friends Hotel. Avid readers will know that I've stayed here before. It's a pleasant and unassuming place on the outside and this time I was staying in room 407 on the fourth floor where there is a framed image of Kylie Minogue on the wall over the bed. When I was last here I stayed in room 207 and had a framed photograph of Twiggy on the bathroom wall. Room 407's phone is a bling skull made to resemble Damien Hirst's 'Diamond Geezer', although it took me a while to work out that it was a phone.

After a reasonable night's sleep – I was awoken around 0330hrs by noises from the street – I went in search of a Netto supermarket in order to buy some toothpaste and stumbled upon a decent-looking bike shop selling Koga bicycles. I would love to buy a Koga bicycle. The shop was closed so I couldn't go in, but I wandered back to the hotel and prepared to check out. I ordered a cab and then spent the morning in a meeting. After a very pleasant lunch in a Chinese restaurant I walked across town – it took me one hour to reach the hotel using the iphone's GPS. While it threatened to rain, the weather was fine – there have been temperatures as high as 39 degrees C here in Düsseldorf.

Back on the tarmac at Gatwick airport...

I ordered a cab to the airport, but arrived miles too early, so I ordered a beer and some peanuts plus a cake and some tea. The flight was delayed, but eventually it arrived and off we went. I love it when the pilot says "excellent flying conditions" and they were, although en route I discovered that it was against aviation rules – apparently – to bring your own wine aboard a plane. "So if you'll finish that glass and then drink our wine instead, I'd be grateful," said a rather terse member of the cabin crew. To be totally honest, their wine was better than mine so I conformed with their wishes and enjoyed the short flight back to London Gatwick. On both the outward and inward flights I had virtually the same meal: a croque monsieur with red wine, a packet of peanuts and a bottle of mineral water.

What I find really odd about easyJet is the speedy boarding system. While it worked fine back in the day when there was basically a scrum for the seats, now that they've initiated allocated seating like proper airlines, there doesn't seem to be much point. Standing at the gate, those with speedy boarding were called to jump on the bus that would take them to the plane ahead of everybody else by about five minutes – and then we all piled on. When we reached the plane, therefore, we, those who hadn't paid for 'speedy boarding', were the first off the bus and the first on the plane. But even if those with speedy boarding had their own bus, which ferried them to the plane before the proletariat, they would end up having to stand in the aisle waiting for whoever had the window and middle seat, so what's the point?

The flight time from Düsseldorf to London was 60 minutes, probably less. Normally I have enough time to eat a snack and one of those small bottles of wine before we land. Once back on terra firma I made my way towards passport control and decided to use the automated exit using my new passport. I was chatting to a friend on the phone about David Byrne's Bicycle Diaries when a man in front of me, from Holland, agreed that it was an excellent book. He had been eavesdropping on my conversation. Once through baggage reclaim and then customs – where I always feel guilty for some reason as I waltz through the 'nothing to declare' section – I made my way to the train station and the familiar but gloomy surroundings of the cold platform, which was full of holiday makers back from sunnier climates (like Düsseldorf) and clearly not happy about being back in the UK.

The train was delayed and then it was delayed some more so I had to get a 'stopping train' to East Croydon, via Horley, Salfords, Earlswood, Redhill, Merstham, Coulsdon South and Purley. I drew some cash from the 'hole in the wall' at East Croydon station and took a black cab home, arriving around 2100hrs.

That wine I wasn't allowed to drink on the plane? I drank it at home and then, after a bit of television, I went to bed.

Heavy fog shrouds Istanbul...

... and there's a strong element of Groundhog Day too. Why? Because in 1987, flying home from Bombay (now Mumbai) my Turkish Airlines plane, which was due to land in Istanbul prior to flying on to London, was diverted to a military airport in Adana on Turkey's southern coast, due to heavy fog shrouding Istanbul.

Then, as now, the airport had been closed and should this fog continue, I'll be holed up here until it clears. Here's hoping that when I wake up tomorrow morning it will be a clear day.

One thing about Istanbul and, indeed, many foreign cities, apart, perhaps, from the USA, is their lack of concern for the safety of their people. Now, I'm saying this as a resident of the United Kingdom with its so-called 'nanny state' and its 'health and safety' culture, but it's only when you find yourself walking the streets of a city like Istanbul that you realise just how lucky you are...or not as the case may be. One of the attractions of Istanbul is its quirkyness, its chaos and the fact that it really is like one of those places you expect to find in an Indiana Jones movie or earlier films starring Sydney Greenstreet, Peter Ustinov and Peter Lorre – you know who is he, the guy in Casablanca who says to Bogart, "Why don't like me, Rick?"

Sydney Greenstreet

There's also a great smell of roasted chestnuts in the air, which I love. 

Yesterday I took a short walk in search of a shop selling a notepad. My first problem was trying to convey my need to the male receptionist of the Renaissance Istanbul Bosphorous Hotel, not to be confused with the Renaissance Hotel nearer to the airport (although that didn't stop my taxi driver yesterday costing me a cool 100 lira). But when I eventually got through to him, via sign language, I was cryptically directed to somewhere across the street and ended up walking considerably further than I needed to; not that it bothered me, but what I noticed, first and foremost, was the very dangerous conditions endured by Turkish pedestrians. For a start the quality of the driving in Istanbul leaves a lot to be desired; in short it's darn right dangerous as there appear to be very little in the way of rules. Motorcyclists think nothing of riding on the pavement, 'taksi' drivers duck and dive and drive at furious speed, nobody is averse to a bit of cutting up other drivers and it's fine to ride a motorcycle without a helmet.

"Why don't you like me, Rick? Actor Peter Lorre.

Worse still, pedestrians find themselves exposed to fast traffic on precarious (and narrow) pavements close to the looney drivers who simply do not care about anybody but themselves. Just a shortish walk  – I say 'shortish' but it was probably 30 minutes in total – and I quickly realised that it was a case of 'survival of the fittest' on the streets of Istanbul.

But it all got me thinking about the possibility of Turkey joining the EU and I soon realised that, on so many levels, it will probably never happen. When I think of all the EU directives designed to protect the individual, I can't really imagine the Turks ever conforming in any concerted way and becoming a 'nanny state'. Add that to the fact that Turkey is very much a kind of halfway house between Europe and the Middle East (and all the ramifications of its Islamic links) and I wonder whether EU membership will ever become a reality for Turkey. Having said that, Turkey doesn't strike me as a nation of unhappy people eager to escape and struggling with very, very low salaries; it's a nice place, an unusual place, where the weather is a million times better than in a lot of EU countries and where just going to work in the morning is an adventure of sorts. If Turkey did become a member of the EU, I don't think the British tabloid media would have to worry about hoardes of Turks queuing up to work in the UK. In fact, thinking about it, I wouldn't mind working in Turkey (while on the tram tonight I noticed a couple of English language schools near Kabatas – that would suit me fine!).

Peter Ustinov

It's worth mentioning Turkish 'taksi' drivers, none of whom appear to know much about the city in which they work. This morning I took two taksi cabs to my destination. I paid one 10 lira and then another 12 lira to a second one to get me to where I wanted to go; and this was after first taking a tram from Beyazit (where I'm staying) to Kabatas (pronounced 'Kabatash').

The traffic situation is very bad and it's not dissimilar to Bangkok or Bombay during rush hour. There's miles too much traffic and it takes an age to get anywhere – you can't even get nowhere fast. This morning I left before 0800hrs to reach my destination by 0900hrs. I was a good ten minutes late. The best part of the journey is the tram, but I was amazed by the way the Turks board the tram without letting passengers off first. Earlier this evening I had to travel one stop beyond Beyazit as I physically couldn't get off for people crowding into the carriage I was trying to vacate. In the UK there would be a voice saying: "Kindly let the passengers off the tram first before boarding." No such politeness here!

But it's all part of Istanbul's character – and I mean that. Staying in the Beyazit area is good too as it's a place of magic carpets and bazaars and street sellers offering cheap shoes and belts, there are cobbled streets which, incidentally, are hosed down by local shopkeepers – all very well, but it makes for a slippery surface and nobody's putting out any yellow plastic signs stating 'caution: wet floor' – and on street corners there are men congregating, drinking Turkish tea out of small hourglass-shaped, vase-like shot glasses. Is this, I wonder, real Turkish tea in the true sense of the word or just Lipton's served without milk and accompanied by two sugar cubes? I'll never know and besides, what IS 'real Turkish tea?'

For the past two nights now I've been having dinner in the hotel restaurant (I had lunch there too yesterday – chicken noodles and a small glass of Efes Dark, Turkish ale (very pleasant). The restaurant I've been using is on the 7th floor and on a normal day it offers great views of the city, but not today. The aforementioned fog blocked out virtually everything. It was a real 'pea souper' as they say and reminded me of Jack the Ripper's London.

There is a restaurant on the 6th floor, which doubles as the breakfast room, but it's always being used at night time for private functions and so is out of bounds for run-of-the-mill hotel guests like yours truly. Last night I had fillet of seabass on a bed of spinach with potatoes; not bad, but there were a few bones (which can't be helped) and I ordered a glass of wine as a wine list was not offered. Yesterday the 7th floor restaurant was virtually empty. Today there were more people and, for the first time, I was offered a wine list and chose a very good half bottle of a Turkish red to accompany my stuffed salmon followed by a chicken curry with rice (all very minimalist) and, of course, a selection of 'seasonal fruits' which today included kiwi fruit, banana, strawberry, tangerine and sliced apple; yesterday it was the same but minus the strawberries.

I love Istanbul although it does get frustrating sitting in a taksi during rush hour waiting for lights to turn green or shielding your face with your hands as your driver ducks and dives his way through horrendous traffic jams, but other than that there are so many good things going for this great city: the general street culture, the smell of roasting chestnuts, the exquisite-looking bakeries with their wonderful patisserie displays, the street sellers, the carpet salesmen, the list goes on.

Prior to flying back Friday I've got a couple hours to spare and might use them (and the tram) to reach other parts of the city. I've also seen what looks like a decent sort of 'caff' in Gulhane for my other blog, so I've got my work cut out. More to report later, but right now, with the time approaching 2330hrs, it's time to hit the sack in preparation for another busy day tomorrow.